


ripped at every edge (but you're a masterpiece)

by poisonrain



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4661775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonrain/pseuds/poisonrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because when she talks about boys who've kissed her and held her and loved her, you should not ache to replace them, shouldn't long to whisper “their calloused hands don't deserve you, anyway.”</p><p>“Lexa?” Clarke murmurs, voice muffled against Lexa's shirt.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“I love you.”</p><p>Lexa tries to tell herself that it doesn't mean anything, that they've been watching too many trashy romantic comedies, that the “I” is nothing more than a slip of the tongue, a simple mistake.</p><p>She whispers her own confession to the waning moon, afraid of being blinded, by the sunshine in Clarke's bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ripped at every edge (but you're a masterpiece)

Clarke Griffin has a birthmark at the nape of her neck, shaped like a star, seven tiny constellations which blur to form a nebula.

She also has a small scar on her right thigh, a by-product of falling from a swing when she was five. (If Lexa didn't know any better, she'd say she fell from the sky.)

Clarke cries when she is angry, listens to indie pop when she is sad. She takes her coffee with two sugars, no milk, and prefers to watch the sun rise rather than set.

Lexa maps her quirks like cities on an atlas, beautiful places she only wishes she had the means to visit. She collects her favourites, her first times, bottles Clarke's laugh, captures her smiles.

It still isn't enough.

Lexa moves closer; then. She dares to sit beside her best friend in art class, watching as she transforms a blank canvas into a work of art, forges colour from shades of black and white.

_It'd be so easy, too easy. “I'm in love with you.”_

“I like your necklace,” she says instead. It's not a lie, not exactly. It's like asking “where is your lipstick from?” instead of leaning in to claim a kiss you've craved for years.

“Thank you.” Clarke smiles, Lexa shatters.

“What are you painting?” It's a safe question, or at least it should be. Clarke is prettiest when she rambles about lilac skies and skeleton trees, poetry writ in chalk instead of ink.

Lexa thinks that Clarke should always have a brush in her hand, paint stains on her jeans. She's never happier than when stood in front of an easel, pouring her soul onto paper, turning the mundane into a Monet.

“It's still a work in progress,” she warns, “but it's how Earth might look from Space.”

Lexa examines the page, heart jolting when her hand brushes Clarke's. She tries to look at it objectively, like a child gazing at the clouds for the first time, a tourist visiting a country that does not belong to them.

She still manages to fall for the soft lines and subtle smudges, the ethereal realm that Clarke has dreamed up from the rivers in her veins, cosmos in her skull.

“This is amazing, Clarke,” she murmurs, reaching out to trace a single star.

Clarke shakes her head, as if trying to shrug off the compliment, ground it into the dust. “It's no big deal.”

Lexa opens her mouth to argue, but Clarke cuts her off.

“Hey, do you want to stay over tonight, babe? I doubt it's as good as the first one, but I rented Pitch Perfect 2.”

_Babe._

Lexa blushes at the term, and not just because she has to maintain her “cold hearted bitch” reputation. Clarke is always so... affectionate. She isn't afraid to hold Lexa's hand or kiss her cheek, act like they're a couple in a so called “chick flick.”

And it's scary, terrifying even, how easy is to get lost in the short distance between their lips, the fabric of Clarke's t-shirt on her skin.

Lexa has spent a long time learning the difference between “love you” and “ _I_ love you,” but then Clarke's eyes meet hers and god; it's back to square one, jagged butterflies all over again.

“I'd like that,” she murmurs in reply, her gaze boring holes into the art room tiles.

Luckily for Lexa, she's always found it easier to use her head, rather than speak from her heart. (Be it a blessing or a curse).

 

“Dude, seriously, ask her out already.”

Lexa should have known that Raven's response to her Clarke-sized problem would be along the lines of “just tell her,” as if there was ever any “just” about it.

“I can't. She has a boyfriend, remember. She doesn't like me... like that.”

Raven rolls her eyes, sighing like Lexa is some kind of idiot. To be fair, falling in love with her straight best friend probably qualifies Lexa for that title.

“Finn cheated on me _three_ times last year. There's no way that Clarke is serious about him.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Lexa mumbles. She's seen the way Finn looks at Clarke, because it's the same way that _she_ does. And judging by Clarke's behaviour, all late night phone calls and cheesy grins when they pass each other in the hallway, it's pretty clear that she feels the same way.

“Lexa, Clarke deserves better, she deserves _you._ ”

Lexa smiles at the words, and not because they're true, or because she plans on taking Raven's advice, but because she's never really had a friend before. Other than Clarke, of course.

It's not like she can talk about her crush on Clarke, _with_ Clarke.

Raven may be sarcastic and straightforward, but she's a damned good listener, and she makes Lexa feel less alone in this whole “oh no I have feelings” thing.

“Thank you, but I don't think Clarke sees it like that.”

Raven scoffs. “You two are practically married, anyway. It's not like it'd be much of a step up.”

Lexa is fairly sure that “unrequited love” is a whole different kettle of fish to “actual live-in wives,” but she decides not to argue Raven's point.

“I wish,” she mutters instead.

Her whole life seems to be a series of “what ifs” and “but maybes,” every shooting star labelled “Clarke Griffin.”

 

They're halfway though their fifth movie of the night (The Breakfast Club, a “true cinematic masterpiece” according to Clarke), when Clarke begins to yawn, manoeuvring so she can use Lexa's stomach as a pillow.

And it's not fair, it's not fair at all really, because her breath is faint against the v of Lexa's hip and what she wouldn't give to have that same breath in her mouth, curled around her lungs, like a flower growing far away from home.

“What do you think about Finn?” Clarke asks after a beat, all manner of seriousness. _She wants me to like him_ , Lexa thinks.

_I hate him. He's all full stops and dead ends. He's going to ruin you. He's going to ruin you. I can love you better than he ever could._

She settles on “he seems nice.” Clarke doesn't ask any more questions after that.

_Because girlhood should be soft whispers and softer skin, all secrets in the dark and catchy songs on repeat. It shouldn't be thorns in your ribcage every time she giggles, lip-gloss stains because you couldn't will your hands to stop shaking._

_It should be getting drunk under the bleachers and gazing at the sky, not writing stuttered poems about how she's your heart. Sharing clothes should not turn into sleeping with her sweater because it smells like coconut and glass dreams, broken prose you'll never read._

_Because when she talks about boys who've kissed her and held her and loved her, you should not ache to replace them, shouldn't long to whisper “their calloused hands don't deserve you, anyway.”_

“Lexa?” Clarke murmurs, voice muffled against Lexa's shirt.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Lexa tries to tell herself that it doesn't mean anything, that they've been watching too many trashy romantic comedies, that the “I” is nothing more than a slip of the tongue, a simple mistake.

She whispers her own confession to the waning moon, afraid of being blinded, by the sunshine in Clarke's bedroom.

 

It's not a date.

That's what Lexa tells herself when Clarke wakes her up at 6am, coffee in hand, just to repeat “let's go to the beach!” until she finally concedes. (which okay; not that she needs a lot of convincing to spend time with Clarke).

Clarke has even made pancakes (her favourite), and Lexa is forced to forgive her for inadvertently breaking her heart.

How is she supposed to know the value of a single a letter, the implications of saying “I love you” to someone who'd give her the stars, if only she asked?

Clarke can't be blamed for Lexa's fruitless crush, and Lexa certainly isn't ready to loose her best friend; her soulmate; her everything, by telling Clarke how she feels. The truth is overrated, anyway.

“Would you like maple syrup?” Clarke asks, and Lexa nods around a mouthful of pancake. _“You two are practically married anyway.”_ Damn it, Raven.

While she's gone, Lexa tries not to think about the curve of Clarke's lips, the strip of exposed skin where her shirt and shorts don't quite meet.

She fails, and can't bring herself to mind at all.

 

 

(Not a date).

“I hate sand,” Clarke grumbles, dusting invisible grains off her legs.

Lexa casts her gaze down to the book in her hand, which she is currently “reading.” (If reading is now code for “watching Clarke sketch the ocean.”)

_(Don't let her catch you staring.)_

“There are approximately five hundred quadrillion grains of sand on the average beach, so I'm guessing you've come to the wrong place,” Lexa deadpans.

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Hey, could you get my back?” She brandishes a bottle of sunblock, the words “SPF 40” printed in bright red lettering. “Grilled tomato isn't exactly a good look.”

Lexa wants to say no. She _should_ say no.

“Sure.”

Clarke's skin is warm under her hands, a small smattering of freckles between her shoulder blades. And wow, what Lexa wouldn't give to join the dots like constellations, press kisses to every inch of Clarke's spine.

She curses herself for thinking these thoughts about her best friend, her best friend who has a _boyfriend_ for god's sake.

Lexa gives the bottle back to Clarke, smile set in stone.

_(Don't touch her)._

“Do you want me to-” Clarke starts, and Lexa cuts her off with a firm “no.” The mere _thought_ of Clarke returning the favour is enough to make her head explode. She'd sooner burn.

“I need to tell you something,” she says instead, and oh no- is Lexa really doing this now? Perhaps she really does have sun stroke, or maybe her mouth has gained a mind of its own.

 _If I don't tell this truth, I'll spill another,_ Lexa concedes. She'd rather Clarke think differently of her, less even, than not think of her at all.

“I'm gay.”

The world grows quiet as Lexa waits for a reply, silence sitting heavy on her chest. Sky bleeds into sea, a bruise of turquoise hues. _Please don't hate me._

“I know.” Wait, what?

“Lexa, you've never dated a guy, like, ever. Plus, you and Costia totally had something going on before she transferred,” Clarke explains. “I figured you'd tell me in your own time. And, uh, I guess you just did.”

Costia was a girl in Lexa's English class last year, all dark hair and pale skin. She was nice, sweet even. But her hands were a little too cold when Lexa held them in her own, and her eyes were the wrong shade of cloudy blue, leaving Lexa unable to say “I love you.”

“Wait, so, you don't care? This doesn't change anything?”

Clarke shakes her head. “Of course not. In fact, I-” she trails off. “Never mind.”

Lexa pretends not to see the way that Clarke's shoulders slump in defeat, a similar confession turning to ash on her lips.

She can handle the fact that Clarke doesn't like girls, but isn't sure she can cope with the revelation that maybe, Clarke just doesn't like her.

 

Lexa hates parties.

She fails to understand the appeal of drunk strangers and heavy bass, teenagers bleeding out into paper cups, offering their souls to the beat of a song.

That doesn't explain why she is currently standing in Octavia's driveway, trying to muster up the courage to go inside.

_Because Clarke asked her to. Because Clarke's puppy-dog expression makes the bones of Lexa's shoulders ache. Because she never learnt how to say “no” to her best friend._

Lexa hears Raven call her name, spotting her behind a shield of stained glass. “I think Clarke was looking for you,” she explains, gesturing in the direction of Octavia's basement.

That's a surprise. Lexa figured she'd be too busy making out with Finn, exchanging kisses like empty promises, that won't be remembered come morning.

“I'll go and find her.”

As she weaves her way through the crowd, Lexa can't help but wish she was one of them, drunk on pointless lyrics and colourful liquid, unburdened by a desire for modern art, a set of arms and a single thumping heart.

Would it be easier? To feel nothing? To engrave the motto “love is weakness” into her ribcage, a reminder to never get too close, that she's better off alone?

Lexa figures that Tennyson was full of crap with his whole “better to have loved and lost” spiel. Not that Clarke was ever hers to begin with.

“Lexa?”

_How could you ever wish any of this away? Isn't it worth it, the pain, just for those moments when she looks at you, like maybe you're a tiny part of her utopia? Like maybe you're the reason she discovered her love for the great beyond, or decided her nose wasn't worth hating, after all?_

_Green may not be her favourite colour, as blue is yours, but she still sketches summer leaves, shares a fondness for mossy hues._

“I broke up with Finn.” Lexa should be relieved. Happy, even. Isn't this what she wanted? “He was cheating on me with someone else.”

“I'm sorry, Clarke.” She means it, too. Lexa never wished for her to get hurt, not like this.

“It's okay. I thought I'd be sad, you know? But I'm just... not.” She's slurring her words a little, Octavia's punch apparently having served it's purpose.

“I dated him for almost a month, and I don't feel anything. Why don't I feel anything, Lexa?”

Of all the ways Lexa imagined her first kiss with Clarke, this isn't it. She pictured a watercolour of shaking hands and soft lips, all hot breath and skin on skin.

Lexa never expected Clarke to kiss her in a dark basement, mere hours after breaking up with her boyfriend. She tastes like liqueur and regret, an ending to a story that does not belong to them.

(She never expected to be the one to pull away, either).

“I can't do this, Clarke. You're drunk, you don't know what you want.”

“I want you.”

_Oh god I want you in every way there is to want a person. I want you at 3pm when we're sitting on your kitchen bench laughing at terrible jokes and I want you at 4am when the world is a little too hazy and you just need a warm body to feel less alone._

_I want you at your best and I want you at your worst. I want your poetry and your smiles and the thunderstorms in your veins. I want your sarcasm and your rage and the freckles on your face. I want to be with you, I want to know what it is to miss you when you're gone._

_I want to wake up next to you, I want to come home to you. But most of all, most of all, I just want you._

Lexa could say all of that and more, but she doesn't. She doesn't because Clarke won't even remember this conversation come morning, let alone crave the sound of Lexa's voice, the way her own name sounds on Lexa's tongue.

Clarke wants her for a night, not a lifetime, and she can't do that, not even for her best friend. She turns on her heel, and does her best not to look back.

This time, Lexa succeeds.

 

They haven't spoken in three days.

Raven, of course, finds the whole thing ridiculous. “You should have kissed her back,” she says, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

But she's wrong.

Nothing about this is simple. It's not easy to be in love with a girl who paints the clouds and colours the sea, dreams of metaphors that can never be.

_Because she sees you as flesh and blood, a mere footnote in the history books, but you've found your galaxies in the broken chit of her bones._

“It's better this way,” Lexa lies. “Maybe we can still be friends.”

Truthfully, she knows that ship has sailed. Clarke texted her half an hour ago, requesting to “come over tomorrow.” Lexa figures she wants her t-shirt back, the one that Lexa has totally _not_ been using as a pillowcase for the past week.

Which, you know, is fair. Its just that it smells a little to much like _home_ for Lexa to give up.

Raven changes the subject after that, rambling at a pace that sets Lexa's teeth on edge. She catches snippets of gossip, lines like: “- and then Monty threw up in Octavia's vase. It was pretty gross.”

Mostly though, she just worries about seeing Clarke again. Is “hello” too formal? “Hey, nerd” too familiar? Should she throw Clarke's t-shirt out of the window and retreat to the safety of her blankets?

Will there be awkward eye contact? Useless chit-chat like they haven't known each other for the better part of five years? Lexa isn't sure she knows how to go back to being strangers. The very idea kills her a little bit.

_I could always tell her the truth._

Yeah, right. Lexa can't bear the hear the words “I love you too, just not like that,” like a scene from some cliché soap opera.

She'd rather hold on to the lie of “I want you,” a broken melody that she plays over and over, imagines Clarke saying whilst sober.

_In another lifetime, another universe maybe, I promise to find you, and we'll get our happily ever after._

 

It's not weird.

It's not weird that Clarke and Lexa are sitting (or rather, standing) in silence, having some kind of unspoken staring contest, ever since Clarke showed up five minutes ago.

Okay, it's kinda weird.

Lexa doesn't want to be the first to break, but she isn't sure what else to do. Clarke hasn't even _mentioned_ the t-shirt yet. In fact, she hasn't said an awful lot other than a mumbled “hi” when she opened the door to Lexa's room.

Maybe Clarke is expecting her to-

“Can I paint you?”

_What?_

Clarke doesn't do portraits. She draws the abstract and the nebulous, turns small town dreams into a two dimensional reality. Clarke shades in colours that have not yet been thought up, vision overflowing the lines in her sketchbook.

Lexa has never known her to paint the human face, always thought it too bland for Clarke's celestial taste.

_Why now? Why me? Is it because I blush when you are near, bit my lip when your hand brushes mine? Do you long to capture desire in my irises, look into my soul and see your own reflected back?_

_Lexa is supposed to be the realist but god; right now she feels a lot like an optimist._

“I thought you only painted wonders of the world,” she whispers, nails biting into her palm.

_Because maybe when two people are destined to be together, neither time nor tide can tear them asunder. Stars cross; uncross; shatter like glass. Oceans drain; spill, forge poetry from driftwood and crystal ink. The sky crumbles under a divine weight._

_Because I look at you and see the cosmos, constellations of which I can never reach, but damn; maybe we're here to rewrite the tale; of the girl who fell in love with her best friend._

“Who said I stopped?”

“Clarke-”

But then Clarke is kissing her, for real this time, not some hazy half-promise in a place they don't belong. Screw watercolours, it's a freaking masterpiece, and they're the jagged pieces fitting together to make a whole.

“Yeah, you can paint me,” Lexa murmurs when they break apart, and Clarke smiles against her mouth, fingertips tracing patterns into her hips.

“Good. Oh, and uh, I want my t-shirt back, Woods.”

Lexa has many things to learn about Clarke Griffin. (How long has she known? What happens next? Is that strawberry or raspberry lip balm? _Can I kiss you again_?)

One thing's for sure, though. She's ready to stop gazing at the atlas, and start travelling the world.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr (http://lizgilllies.tumblr.com/) for more fics/posts, and updates on stuff I'm writing. if you want to, of course. I've also written more clexa stuff on this account quite similar to this


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